“A wild piece of boyish daring,” said Dalrymple, somewhat drily.  “I presume he did not return by the same road?”

“I should think not.  It would have been certain death a second time!”

“And this happened how long since?”

“About a fortnight ago.  But we shall soon know all particulars from himself.”

“From himself?”

“Yes, he has obtained leave of absence—­is, perhaps, by this time in Paris.”

Dalrymple set down his cup untasted, and turned away.

“Come, Arbuthnot,” he said, hastily, “I must introduce you to Madame Rachel.”

We passed through a small antechamber, and into a brilliant salon, the very reverse of antique.  Here all was light and color.  Here were hangings of flowered chintz; fantastic divans; lounge-chairs of every conceivable shape and hue; great Indian jars; richly framed drawings; stands of exotic plants; Chinese cages, filled with valuable birds from distant climes; folios of engravings; and, above all, a large cabinet in marqueterie, crowded with bronzes, Chinese carvings, pastille burners, fans, medals, Dresden groups, Sevres vases, Venetian glass, Asiatic idols, and all kinds of precious trifles in tortoise-shall, mother o’-pearl, malachite, onyx, lapis lazuli, jasper, ivory, and mosaic.  In this room, sitting, standing, turning over engravings, or grouped here and there on sofas and divans, were some twenty-five or thirty gentlemen, all busily engaged in conversation.  Saluting some of these by a passing bow, my friend led the way straight through this salon and into a larger one immediately beyond it.

“This,” he said, “is one of the most beautiful rooms in Paris.  Look round and tell me if you recognise, among all her votaries, the divinity herself.”

I looked round, bewildered.

“Recognise!” I echoed.  “I should not recognise my own father at this moment.  I feel like Abou Hassan in the palace of the Caliph.”

“Or like Christopher Sly, when he wakes in the nobleman’s bedchamber,” said Dalrymple; “though I should ask your pardon for the comparison.  But see what it is to be an actress with forty-two thousand francs of salary per week.  See these panels painted by Muller—­this chandelier by Deniere, of which no copy exists—­this bust of Napoleon by Canova—­these hangings of purple and gold—­this ceiling all carved and gilded, than which Versailles contains nothing more elaborate. Allons donc! have you nothing to say in admiration of so much splendor?”

I shook my head.

“What can I say?  Is this the house of an actress, or the palace of a prince?  But stay—­that pale woman yonder, all in white, with a plain gold circlet on her head—­who is she?”

“Phedre herself,” replied Dalrymple.  “Follow me, and be introduced.”